The Funeral
by Tor Raptor
Summary: In the immediate aftermath of the Reichenbach Fall, a funeral is held for Sherlock Holmes. Of course, everyone in attendance copes differently, and some even know the truth. But one thing's for certain: in one way or another, each and every one of them is grieving.
1. Chapter 1

**In the Empty Hearse, when John finds out that Sherlock's parents knew, he says, "So that's why they weren't at the funeral," meaning, of course, that there was a funeral. I've always wondered how that went down, so I wrote it myself. Also, the world of Sherlock fanfiction is somewhat devoid of post-Reichenbach fics that take place in the immediate aftermath. Most of the pick up later. This story will replay the funeral from the perspectives of 7 different characters. If read all at once, it'll be a bit repetitive, so I'm only going to update once a week or so. Hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 1: Donovan

Sally Donovan was not particularly sensitive to the idea of death. In her line of work, she dealt with it on a daily basis—often nasty, gruesome forms of it. But one type of death in particular never failed to resonate painfully within her soul: suicide. How bad did someone's life have to become before they decided it would be better to end it? How miserable, unwanted, and hopeless must they feel?

If there was one person she thought immune from such emotions, it was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't care how he made other people feel, and he certainly didn't care what other people thought about him. Well, apparently he did. He cared so much that he couldn't bear to live a life in a world where people thought he was a fraud.

As soon as she'd heard the news, she was overcome with guilt. For as long as she'd known the man, she'd bullied him. There was no other word to describe her behavior. She'd ruthlessly called him 'Freak' and 'psychopath' without paying any regard to the damage such titles could cause. She'd hated him for how he seemingly took pleasure in murder, made light of people's lives. Maybe he'd had a touch of psychopath in him, but after witnessing what he'd become after meeting John Watson, she was certain he'd never hurt anyone.

She remembered the first thing she'd said to John Watson when he showed up with Sherlock at a crime scene: "One day we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there." She was right, in a way. But when she said that, she never expected her prediction would come to fruition in such a manner. That day, they'd stood around a body, and Sherlock Holmes had put it there. It just so happened to be his own body.

God, she hoped John didn't remember her saying that to him. If he realized the connection, he'd hate her even more than he already did. Sally Donovan knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that John Watson now despised her—how could he not? She'd all but murdered his best friend. She deserved to be hated.

Frankly, she hated herself for what she'd done to Sherlock. It had seemed so unbelievable that he could track down the children just by analyzing a footprint. Lestrade had complete faith in him, why hadn't she? She'd been the one to plant the first seed of doubt in Lestrade's head. She'd been the spark that started the wildfire that burned Sherlock Holmes to the ground. If she'd just kept her stupid mouth shut, Sherlock would still be alive, and John Watson wouldn't be sobbing over a casket. What had she stood to gain by saying such terrible things?

Looking back, it was all out of jealousy. She'd gone to school, had worked and trained exhaustively to reach the position at Scotland Yard she now held. Sherlock Holmes just waltzed in, just barely drug-free, and managed to do in an instant what Sally and the combined brainpower of all her colleagues had failed to do in a week. Wherever she stumbled, Sherlock leapt over her, carrying the answers on a silver platter straight into Lestrade's hands. She was actually thankful he was so picky about the cases he chose to help with; otherwise, she'd be out of the job. If she was honest with herself, she was glad for his help when they really needed it. So many criminals would have walked away scot-free if it weren't for the brilliant detective.

She'd abandoned all doubt in him when he'd killed himself. The saying was true: your word was worth so much more after you were dead. If he'd really faked it all, if he'd really been a merciless psychopath out for attention, the public learning the truth wouldn't have driven him off the edge of a building. He'd have basked in the glory of being one of the greatest criminals in history. But he wasn't a criminal. He was truly the greatest mind to ever walk this Earth, and just a few ill-spoken comments managed to make him into a public scapegoat.

Now he was lying lifeless in a box at the front of the room in which Sally Donovan now found herself.

Most of the funerals she'd attended in her life had been for elderly relatives, with the occasional unfortunate accident causing the death of a younger acquaintance. Yet she'd never been to one that felt quite like this. Funerals for the elderly are usually more uplifting—celebrations of a life well-lived instead of mourning a life cut short. Those preceded by severe illness carried some sense of relief; at least the deceased was no longer suffering. But the funeral for Sherlock Holmes had a completely unique atmosphere.

A man like Sherlock had very few close friends, and they all sat clustered in the front corner. Sally had separated herself from them, knowing Sherlock wouldn't approve of her considering herself a friend. Most of the room was occupied by former clients, friends and family of victims of the crimes he'd solved. In his last few months, his fame had grown, and the number of people who knew his name and would recognize his face had grown exponentially. Had he died a year or two earlier, his funeral wouldn't have garnered half this attendance.

Because of this, the majority of the crowd knew Sherlock only for his work. Very few of the people present had any idea what the man was really like away from crime scenes and the spotlight. They were basically mourning the loss of a favorite comic book hero for all the personal attachment they had to the deceased. Sally suspected the only people who felt true despair at this tragedy were Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, and John—the small circle of friends Sherlock had.

Sally glanced up at them, hunched over in grief while some preacher none of them had ever known muttered nonsense he'd memorized that morning. She couldn't imagine how John must feel, he and Sherlock had been inseparable. Lestrade had told her everything that happened: Sherlock had jumped right in front of John. God, it was horrible. She'd caught a few glimpses of John since arriving, never once with dry eyes. How do you stop crying after your best friend kills himself before your eyes?

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were understandably bereaved. Mrs. Hudson treated Sherlock like a son. Mycroft appeared as he always did—steely and unfeeling—but there was a cloudiness to his gaze that hadn't been there before. Perhaps he did care for his brother after all. But something was off about Molly. Sally knew how much she cared for Sherlock, and how emotional the pathologist could get. Of course, everyone grieved in different ways, but this is not how she expected Molly to react to such an event. Instead of crying, she just stared off into space like she was trying to remember something she'd forgotten long ago.

Sally forced herself to let Molly be; now was not the time to scrutinize other people's coping mechanisms. She listened as Lestrade stepped up and spoke about Sherlock and his passion for his work. He read off the pre-written speech with practiced composure, but she could hear the break in his voice whenever he referred to the detective in the past tense. She knew Sherlock was so much more to him than a consulting detective for tough cases. Anderson, the idiot, wasn't even paying attention, so she nudged him as Lestrade and John changed places.

She'd made it through Lestrade's speech without breaking down, but John's eulogy shattered her. It wasn't so much the words themselves, but the fact John could barely get them out through choking sobs. He had to repeat almost every sentence, reinforcing the fact that Sherlock was gone, which undoubtedly made it even more painful. When it was over, John barely managed to stagger back to his seat before collapsing against Lestrade. Afterwards, there wasn't a dry eye in the room.

Sally had expected someone like Sherlock to donate his body to science or something, but he was to be buried in the cemetery where his grandparents rested. Either she'd been wrong about him, or Mycroft had something to do with it. At his age, it was quite possible Sherlock didn't even have a will.

As the casket was lowered, John attempted to lunge after it like a rock climber leaping for a handhold as he plummeted from the wall. He screamed in anguish, "No, no. NO!" That final, loudest shout came when the casket completely disappeared from view beneath the rim of the hole. It was only Lestrade's tight grip on John that prevented him from jumping in after it.

Sally didn't think she'd ever seen a man so broken. Even her grandfather hadn't been this upset when his wife had died. She didn't know much about Sherlock and John's relationship beyond what she witnessed when they came to Scotland Yard, but clearly it went a little deeper than mere friendship. What she did know was that John's arrival in Sherlock's life had greatly improved his manners. John had sometimes functioned as the filter Sherlock so clearly lacked, ensuring he didn't say or do anything too insensitive. She hadn't known John before he met Sherlock, so she had no way to judge how the detective had affected the doctor. If it was anything as drastic as John's effect on Sherlock, then it was certainly immense.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Mrs. Hudson

Martha Hudson never expected to find herself here. She'd been to plenty of funeral homes—at her age, they were just a part of life—but never once had she considered she'd be drawn to one because of Sherlock. Sherlock, who shot holes in her walls and left bloody specimens in her fridge. Sherlock, who would spring from borderline depression into mania when a case came up. Sherlock, whose occupation drew creepy strangers of all sorts to her front door. Sherlock, whose excitement was infectious, despite the fact that murder was almost always its catalyst. Sherlock, who would return with John from solving a dreadful murder to wolf down sustenance before crashing on the couch or in his bedroom. Sherlock, who always preferred her tea even when he was perfectly capable of making it himself.

Goodness, how she missed him already. The flat was unnervingly quiet without the sounds of his antics emanating from the floor above. She decided she'd much prefer Sherlock and all his quirks to the deafening silence that now permeated her home. Every day, she expected him to come barreling through the front door, shouting about some ridiculous detail the solution depended on. And every day, she was disappointed when the flat above remained stubbornly empty of rampant detectives.

John hadn't returned to Baker Street after he'd collected his things. He said he couldn't bear the emptiness, and Mrs. Hudson understood. She almost wanted to leave it all behind too, but it was the only home she'd known for a long time.

"Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall," she remembered Sherlock saying once. The memory of his voice brought fresh tears to her already swollen eyes, and she forcibly dabbed at them with a tissue. It did little to help, as new tears fell as soon as she wiped the old ones away.

Sherlock had always been like a son to her. From the moment he'd helped ensure Mr. Hudson's death, she'd known he was something special. Most landlords would have kicked him out ages ago, but not Mrs. Hudson. She saw through his mask of arrogance and indifference to the compassionate man beneath.

Since John had entered his life, that compassion had floated nearer and nearer to the surface. He still had his lapses in judgment, but nowadays they were more endearing than concerning. There was no doubt in her mind, John Watson was the best thing that could have possibly happened to Sherlock. The two had instantly clicked, banishing each other's demons and bringing out their best sides. If John wasn't so stubbornly insistent on being straight, they would make the perfect couple.

 _Would've made_ , she reminded herself.

That Sherlock had killed himself was difficult to imagine. He'd always been so confident and full of life. And with all his dealings with criminals, he couldn't have found a cleaner method than jumping off a building? Poor John had seen the whole thing. How could Sherlock do that to his best friend? John must've felt so helpless, seeing Sherlock leap from the top of a building and knowing there was nothing he could do. The whole thing was just so _awful_.

She used to make him tea every morning. He hadn't realized it was her, had claimed he thought it 'just sort of happened,' but she still took joy in the simple gesture. The day after it happened, she made tea like she did every morning, and dropped it on the table without even realizing that its recipient would never appear. When she returned an hour later to collect the dishes, finding the tea untouched made her relive the tragedy all over again. Never again would she see him sit in that chair, curled up as tight as his lanky frame would allow, pondering over some mystery.

To some degree, Mrs. Hudson was angry. She was angry with Sherlock for not coming to her, or going to John for help. He'd always been so stubbornly resistant to assistance of any kind from anyone, but she'd hoped he'd have more sense than that when his life was on the line. But she was more angry with herself. She saw Sherlock every day, and she hadn't noticed how bad things had gotten. She'd thought the press had just run rampant with some silly little fib, that his big brother in the government would sort it all out, but Sherlock had been in big trouble. A man she'd known for years had been suicidal, and she hadn't noticed a thing.

As guilty as she felt, John must be suffering a thousand times worse. She remembered that day vividly; they say that people's ability to memorize details is amplified when they receive devastating news. She'd been at home with the repairman, an ordinary day, when John came storming in breathlessly. He'd glanced at her once, panicked, then turned tail and ran back out the door. She would've stopped him if she knew he was running away to watch his best friend die right before his eyes.

She knew he'd already battled PTSD, and this event would only bring the worst of that back. She just hoped his psychosomatic limp didn't make a reappearance; the last thing John Watson needed was more hardship. He appeared to hit rock bottom. Now, as Mrs. Hudson sat in the front row of a funeral she shouldn't have to attend, John Watson openly wept a few seats down. She'd never seen a man so broken.

Detective Inspector Lestrade spoke about Sherlock's passion for his work, and everyone in the room was somewhat moved. But when he traded places with John, a tangible silence washed over the room. Everyone knew his relationship to Sherlock; everyone saw him cry continuously since he'd stepped foot in the room. Mrs. Hudson was overwhelmed with fresh tears as she listened to John elaborate his tale of the great detective. Under any other circumstances, his words would have been incomprehensible through his strangled sobs, but he seemed to convey his speech on an emotional level. It didn't matter that he couldn't get the words out, everyone understood his pain.

Mrs. Hudson was almost glad when it was over and John returned to his seat. She'd been slightly afraid he'd pass out from grief and hit his head. She saw Lestrade wrap a comforting arm around his shoulders, and John barely noticed through the cascade of tears. She was somewhat relieved when the ceremony began the transfer to the cemetery. The atmosphere of the funeral home was saturated with sorrow and anguish, and she needed to breathe some air that didn't smell of sadness.

Outside were serene, blue skies and a gentle breeze. It was a rare sunny day in London. Mrs. Hudson had never stopped to deeply consider the afterlife or spirits, but she couldn't help but wonder if this was Sherlock sending them a sign that he was alright. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it was still nice not to bury a casket in damp, muddy earth during a torrential rainstorm. She couldn't watch as the coffin was lowered into the earth, it was too painful. John's strangled shout of, "No, no. NO!" made her cringe. She glanced over at the doctor to find Lestrade forcibly restraining him from jumping into the grave after Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson didn't know what to think or do. She felt like the rug had been yanked from under her feet, leaving her stumbling for balance. She wasn't sure if she'd ever regain her footing.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Anderson

Oh, you've really done it now.

Philip Anderson couldn't help but feel partially responsible. Okay, maybe more than partially. He and Donovan had single-handedly convinced Lestrade that Sherlock was a fraud. But in their defense, almost all the evidence had led them to such a conclusion. Seriously, a footprint couldn't possibly hold enough information to track down the children. It just didn't make any sense!

Anderson had worked in forensics for a long time, so he knew what to look for at a crime scene. But according to a certain someone, everything he found important was actually trivial and would have no bearing whatsoever on tracking down the culprit. God, he _hated_ how irreverently Sherlock treated his crime scenes. He lost count of how many potential pieces of evidence the consulting detective had contaminated in his search for whatever-the-hell-it-was.

Yet he couldn't deny that the man's methods were effective. There were very few cases he'd been presented with that he couldn't solve—except the case of his own innocence. How unfortunate that the one case that proved too difficult struck so close to home. Sherlock's exploits had been so unbelievable, it had been ridiculously easy to turn the public against him. It was almost as if they'd been biding their time, waiting for the perfect evidence to defame the detective.

But that didn't make any sense! The public loved Sherlock Holmes, why would they be so willing to turn against him? One little newspaper article had been enough to send him over the edge into infamy. Things like that didn't happen to Sherlock Holmes unless he wanted them to. Had he wanted his reputation destroyed? It was the only possible explanation.

Sherlock had wanted everyone to believe him a fraud, but why? What had he possibly served to gain by demolishing the reputation he'd spent so long building and then hurling himself off a building? Knowing Sherlock, it had to be something important. This was definitely part of some master plan of his.

"Hey, pay attention," Sally urged, gently elbowing him in the side. Anderson hadn't even realized John had stood up to speak, he'd been so lost in his own thoughts. It was probably rude to question someone's motives at their own funeral, but he honestly didn't care. Sherlock had done nothing but harass him in life, why should Anderson respect him in death?

He'd never known Sherlock to be anything but surly and standoffish, but he must have been a completely different person when he was around John. There was no doubt the two men had been as close as friends could be. John's reaction to Sherlock's death was indisputable evidence of that. The doctor hadn't stopped crying since he'd stepped foot into the funeral home.

Anderson had lost people in his life before, but no death had caused him the degree of grief that John Watson was currently displaying. He felt terrible, knowing he was partially responsible. As John spoke about Sherlock, the words barely escaping his mouth through choked sobs, Anderson couldn't help but shed a few tears. It stung to see John so desperately miserable.

If Sherlock had cared about John even half as much as the doctor evidently cared for him, he never would have killed himself. Unless he really was enough of a psychopath to be blind to the grief his own death would cause those close to him. When John finished, he quickly returned to sit with Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly, and Lestrade. Those five were the only people that considered themselves Sherlock's friends—well, Mycroft was his brother, so that didn't really count. Anderson wondered how many people would be that upset at his own funeral if he committed suicide. "What a selfish thing to think about," he reminded himself. He shook his head back and forth to refocus himself, and turned his attention back to the front of the room.

The time came for them to move the ceremony to the cemetery, where they'd put Sherlock in the ground. Anderson was still thinking about how Sherlock would never allow this to happen when something about the pall bearers struck him. They moved with far less effort than one would expect for men carrying a coffin containing a person. Sherlock would have been proud of him, Anderson thought, for noticing something so trivial. It was just the sort of thing the detective himself would have pointed out.

Could the coffin really be empty? Nobody but the immediate family had been allowed to look inside before the funeral, and that group consisted solely of Mycroft Holmes. It would actually be quite easy to disguise an empty coffin as an occupied one. But if the body wasn't here, where was it? What if there wasn't a body at all? What if this was all just an elaborate scheme so Sherlock could hide out for a while?

The gears in Anderson's brain began to turn, theorizing reasons and methods for the detective to stage his own death. He barely heard John's strained, "No, no. NO!" through the whirlwind of his own ideas. It seemed like just the thing Sherlock Holmes would do, fake his own death. It was dramatic, something you'd expect to see in a movie or television program. There was no doubt he could pull it off, with his intelligence and influence.

Anderson was sold: Sherlock Holmes was not really dead. He was almost tempted to dive into the grave and pry the lid off the coffin just to prove his point. But, if he turned out to be wrong, the consequences would be disastrous. As confident as he was in this conclusion, he did _not_ want to incur the wrath of a grieving John Watson. The doctor was dangerous enough when he was sane.

As it was, he couldn't help but snicker maniacally to himself as the first shovelfuls of dirt were dropped into the hole. Before he could shut himself up, Lestrade turned around and glared daggers at him. He probably thought Anderson was laughing with glee to finally be rid of Sherlock. He couldn't allow his boss to think of him like that, so he walked over to explain himself. He grabbed the DI by the sleeve and pulled him off to the side, away from John and other listening ears.

"Anderson, how could you?" Lestrade accused.

"I promise, I wasn't laughing at this," Anderson defended.

"Then what the bloody hell were you laughing about?" he hissed through gritted teeth, eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying.

"Listen, I don't think Sherlock's really dead. I think he faked it."

"God Anderson, what the hell is this? We're at the man's bloody funeral, and you're accusing him of faking it? Unacceptable." Lestrade massaged his temples and shook his head. "I know you two didn't get along very well, but the least you can do is show him some respect." With that, he stalked away, leaving Anderson to wallow in his own guilt.

Anderson was confident in his theory: there was no way someone as arrogant as Sherlock Holmes would choose to leave a world where everybody thought he was a liar. He'd come back in a blaze of glory and prove them all wrong, prove yet again that he was infinitely cleverer than the lot of them. Anderson vowed to figure out how it was done if it took him years.

He believed in Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Molly

Molly Hooper was nervous. That's not an emotion typically associated with funerals; those would be grief, depression, pity, or guilt. But Molly wasn't a typical funeral attendee, not in this situation. Everyone in that room thought it was a real funeral, except for her and Mycroft. Technically speaking, it was a real funeral, because Sherlock was legally dead—she herself had declared it. But she and Mycroft knew the truth.

She remembered the moment Sherlock asked for her help; it was etched permanently in her memory. She'd told him if he needed anything, he could have her, but she never expected he'd take her up on that offer, especially not like this. He'd told her he thought he was going to die. Her thoughts immediately jumped to some terminal illness he wanted an experimental treatment for, and then to drugs. But Sherlock's request took her completely by surprise. He wanted her help in faking his death.

He'd explained to her exactly why it needed to happen, but she didn't particularly care about that. She wanted to know what she needed to do, and why he wouldn't tell John. Her job was simple enough: obtain the corpse of his doppelganger that Moriarty had used, and ensure the records listed Sherlock Holmes as dead. He'd explained that the whole business was top secret, that nobody except her, Mycroft, his parents, and a select few members of the homeless network would know the truth. She, Mycroft, and the homeless network were necessary to the plan, but his parents would be told so they wouldn't fret.

"Sherlock, John's going to freak out. Probably even more than your parents would," she'd reminded him.

"It's too dangerous if he knows. We need to keep potential weak links in the coverup to a minimum. He might go letting on," Sherlock had replied.

"But Sherlock, he cares. This will break him."

"Please, my death won't affect him so drastically. By then, he'll believe me a fraud and a liar. Besides, his reaction will make everything that much more believable. John's not that good an actor," Sherlock had explained haughtily.

Molly had wanted to contradict him, to tell him that John was his best friend and he would be crushed if Sherlock committed suicide right in front of him, but she'd held her tongue. When Sherlock had his mind set on something, it was futile to argue with him. So she'd gone along with his plan, and had watched John Watson crumble.

It physically hurt her to see him mourning when she could alleviate his pain just by telling him the truth. But she'd promised Sherlock, and she wasn't one to go back on her promises. So she sat in the funeral home listening to the sounds of grief that surrounded her and attempting not to look too aloof. She hadn't wanted to come, hadn't trusted her acting skills enough to not get her into trouble, but Mycroft had forced her. She had to admit he was right; if she didn't come, it would be suspicious. The elder Holmes had reminded her that if Sherlock really died, she would drop everything to come to his funeral, and everyone who knew her and her relation to Sherlock would expect this. She only hoped nobody suspected her.

Glancing around the room, everyone was too absorbed in their own sorrow to notice her lack of emotion. But as the ceremony progressed, she didn't have to worry about seeming indifferent anymore. Greg Lestrade stepped up to speak, and tears slipped from Molly's eyes the second he opened his mouth. As he spoke, she understood what it would really be like to lose a friend to suicide. It was something she hoped she never had to endure.

If Lestrade's speech had made her emotional, there were no words to describe the pure agony John' eulogy evoked deep inside her. She knew he cared about Sherlock and would be affected by this tragedy, but the full scope of his despair was frightening to witness. It took all of her willpower not to sprint up there and give him a great big hug. She wished Sherlock could see this, see evidence that John Watson couldn't live without him. At least not a life worth living.

Sherlock could be so silly sometimes with his ignorance of other people's feelings. For someone as observant as him, he could be so blind. Molly had seen firsthand the lengths John was willing to go to protect Sherlock, and Sherlock for John. How Sherlock couldn't see that his best friend cared for him deeply was a mystery to Molly. Or maybe his reluctance to tell John had been a sign of how much he does care. Even if he wasn't really dying, he was going away for a really long time—nobody knew exactly how long it would take to dismantle Moriarty's network—and he would miss John. And it was dangerous work; Sherlock would be throwing himself deep into the inner workings of nefarious criminal organizations. There was a chance this mission would prove fatal. Maybe he hadn't told John to ensure the doctor wouldn't anxiously await his return, only for that day to never come. This way, if he never came back, John would accept it and move on with his life.

However, Molly didn't see any signs that John would be able to move anywhere in the near future. After he finished speaking, he'd almost had to be carried back to his seat, where he promptly collapsed against Lestrade, sobbing. Molly had never lost a close friend before, and while she would undoubtedly be upset, she didn't think she'd feel this sheer agony. It was truly a testament to John's friendship with the great detective.

The rest of the ceremony was conducted in the cemetery; Mycroft had, of course, arranged a plot in the place where his and Sherlock's grandparents were buried. Molly considered leaving before she accidentally let something slip—she was certainly not notorious for being tight-lipped—but decided against it. Nobody leaves a funeral early.

But as the (empty) casket was lowered into its hole, she sincerely wished she had left. John's screams would haunt her every waking moment for the rest of her life. She couldn't bear to watch as he struggled against Lestrade's grip. If the DI hadn't been clutching him so tightly, Molly feared he would've hurled himself into the grave and let himself be buried along with what he thought was Sherlock's body. At the rate things were going, Molly worried he'd become so depressed that he considered suicide, even potentially went through with it. What a tragedy that would be, if Sherlock returned from his escapades abroad to find John had been so distraught at his absence that he killed himself. The saddest kind of irony.

So that day, Molly Hooper made a vow. While she watched people throw dirt on a casket containing no body, she promised Sherlock she would keep John Watson safe from himself. Of course he didn't hear her, he was off God-knows-where doing God-knows-what, but she promised him nonetheless. She would prevent John from slipping over the edge. She would do whatever it took, just short of revealing Sherlock's secret, to keep John Watson anchored in this world.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Mycroft

Mycroft had always hated funerals. They represented everything that was sentimental and whimsical about humanity. Tens of thousands of people died every day; it was one of few truly inevitable things in life. "All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage," he'd once told Sherlock. Yet people still couldn't resist getting attached, even though it always ended with sorrow for one or more of the involved parties.

He'd never expected to attend the funeral of his own little brother, even if he wasn't really dead. Mycroft knew he was in incredible danger, sneaking away to dismantle Moriarty's network, and he very well could die. If he had to go, that's how Sherlock would want to do it, none of this suicide nonsense. As many times as he'd overdosed, whether on purpose or not, Sherlock was certainly not suicidal.

Well, there was a time when Mycroft would have considered applying that label, but that was a long time ago. That was before John Watson. The doctor had an indisputable influence on his little brother. He remembered the first day he'd met John, attempting to intimidate him into spying on Sherlock for him. The man had been adamant he wouldn't do such a thing, even though he'd known Sherlock for all of a few hours. He was admirably loyal.

That loyalty had never been more evident than it was in the current situation. Sherlock had always considered himself unattached to other human beings, but the reactions of the people in this room right now proved him one hundred percent wrong. Mycroft couldn't believe how many people were grieving for his little brother. It was… comforting, to say the least, to know that Sherlock had people who cared so deeply about him. "You're going soft," Mycroft thought to himself. The Holmes brothers had never valued human companionship, but since meeting John, Sherlock had deviated from that mindset. Mycroft almost envied him: he was simple enough to take pleasure in the company of half-wits.

As much as they appeared to hate each other, Mycroft did care for his brother's safety. He would do everything he could to protect him from harm—whether caused by Sherlock himself or an external force. As he listened to Lestrade and John speak about him as if he were really dead, all Mycroft could think about was the very real possibility that Sherlock would never return from his crusade. If that happened, would he grieve as deeply as John Watson currently was? Probably not.

People probably expected him to be just as torn up as John since it was his own younger brother that had died, but nobody seemed to be paying him any attention. Anyway, those that had met him knew he was stoic even in the most trying of circumstances. They probably assumed his ethereal calm was a coping mechanism of some sort. He could have put on a performance if he'd so desired, but he thought it disrespectful to fake cry in the presence of so many real tears.

He glanced over at Molly, whom he'd had to convince to attend the funeral. She hadn't wanted to come, claiming she'd look suspicious since she couldn't act very well. Mycroft agreed to some degree—she _wasn't_ a very good actress—but he'd pointed out that her absence from such an occasion would be even more conspicuous. Everyone knew how the pathologist felt about Sherlock, if she didn't make an appearance at his funeral, alarm bells would ring that even Lestrade could hear.

Given the circumstances, she was performing satisfactorily. Mycroft hadn't expected anything award-worthy, but he had feared she'd let on. Sherlock trusted her with this secret, despite all of Mycroft's attempts to convince him otherwise, so Mycroft had been forced to accept her. Sitting in the front row next to Mrs. Hudson, she didn't appear carelessly indifferent, but seemed lost in her own world. Everyone would assume it was her way of coping with such a loss, because the truth was far more bizarre than the lack of tears on Molly Hooper's cheeks.

The funeral's overall turnout had surprised him. Towards the end of his career, Sherlock had gained fame by taking on progressively more important cases. The number of people his work affected had grown exponentially, and many former clients felt obligated to attend. Mycroft had organized the ceremony himself, keeping it as simple as possible. That's how Sherlock would've wanted it if it were a real funeral: minimalistic. He'd probably prefer his body donated to science, but Mycroft's parents would never allow that. They wanted to be buried with their parents, and had instilled this belief in both of their sons. Even if their parents departed first, both boys feared their disappointment enough to comply.

Of course, the Holmes parents had been informed of the situation. Mycroft didn't want to subject his parents to such tragedy, and he _certainly_ didn't want to deal with them questioning him as to how he let things get so far. He was the designated Sherlock-manager, and committing suicide was definitely on the list of things Sherlock wasn't allowed to do under his watch. Their parents had chosen not to attend the fake funeral because they didn't even want to pretend that their little boy could be dead.

They'd already lost one child, and that was partially Mycroft's fault. He'd staged Eurus's death to save them from the despair of knowing what their daughter had become. This had been an executive decision of Mycroft's, and he hadn't yet encountered any reason to regret it. He was now the only Holmes who knew of her existence; Sherlock's subconscious had banished all memories of her. How strange that he'd faked the deaths of both of his younger siblings. Hopefully, he wouldn't regret this one either.

He'd acquired a simple wooden casket to bury—empty, of course. There would be a headstone, but those things took time. It would bear only his name, birth date, and death date, no silly epitaph or anything like that. Sherlock had actually helped him with this decision, among a few others. He initially hadn't wanted a funeral at all, but Mycroft reminded him that people like Lestrade and John wouldn't let that happen. Sherlock sometimes neglected to acknowledge how much people cared about him. When he'd consented to a funeral, he'd requested Mycroft not allow anybody to give one of those stupid speeches that attempted to be happy and upbeat, but ended up being downright depressing. Again, Mycroft had been forced to veto this, knowing that John Watson would indubitably want to say a few words.

However, Sherlock had been right in his description. John's eulogy was nothing short of heart-wrenching, even for someone as rigid and unfeeling as Mycroft. If it weren't for the risk to Sherlock's confidentiality, Mycroft would have waltzed up there and told John the truth, if only to make it stop. Nobody deserved such devastation.

After arriving at the cemetery, Mycroft couldn't help but notice that the men carrying the coffin clearly weren't lifting the weight of a full-grown man. But he was the only one astute enough to notice such a detail. What he didn't expect was the heavy feeling that manifested in his chest when it was lowered into the grave. He knew the casket was empty, but it was hard to remember that when there was no visual reminder that Sherlock's body _wasn't_ locked in that box.

John's strained, "No, no. NO!" certainly didn't help matters any. Suddenly, Mycroft felt a burning behind his eyes and a trail of dampness on his right cheek. He immediately wiped the offending side of his face with a handkerchief. He was crying? Mycroft Holmes hadn't cried since he was five years old. What would Sherlock say if he saw him like this?

"You've gone soft. Crying at my funeral? I thought you were above such frivolities," his brother's voice taunted in his head.

As a second tear wound a salty trail down his face, Mycroft muttered to himself: "Maybe not, brother mine. Maybe not."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Lestrade

Greg Lestrade had become accustomed to violent deaths. In his line of work, they were an everyday occurrence, and the weak and squeamish didn't last long. He was used to it, but that didn't mean he wasn't to some degree personally affected by every single death he was forced to investigate. So many innocent people in this world died for all the wrong reasons, and he was fed up with it. He'd learned long ago to push his emotions to one side, to avoid getting too involved. If he'd gotten more personally involved in his cases, his reservoirs of pity would have run dry ages ago.

However, there was one man who rented quite a large space in the DI's head, a space filled mostly with curiosity, awe, and pity. Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade had always marveled at the man's incredible ability to deduce and solve a crime, and had always wondered about some of his more eccentric traits. Sherlock functioned like a machine that ran on a very specific fuel: murder. When sufficiently motivated, he would become a barely contained ball of energy, sprinting about London and bouncing off the walls to solve the mystery. When there was no case on, he would shut down and sit motionless for an inhuman amount of time. Sometimes Lestrade was convinced the man was an android.

But the arrival of John Watson blew holes in the android theory. Sherlock Holmes had a heart, it had just needed a little push to activate it into functioning properly. John Watson had pushed Sherlock Holmes to become the person nobody ever thought he could become. A Sherlock in the company of John was a thousand times more tolerable than a solitary Sherlock. The doctor was so much more than the guy who blogs about his crimes. He was his social guidebook, moral compass, and fiercely loyal companion. But the detective had turned around and bloody killed himself right in front of the man who'd become his best friend.

Lestrade couldn't begin to imagine the utter _pain_ John must've felt when he realized what was happening. His own best friend had failed to notify him that he was fatally suicidal until he was literally on the edge of the precipice, looking down at the ground four stories below. Lestrade himself felt terrible enough that he hadn't noticed how much the accusations were getting under Sherlock's skin. He thought the detective was arrogant enough to allow something like that to effortlessly slide off his back, but apparently the massive scope of his defamation was enough to push him over the edge.

Lestrade couldn't help but hold himself more-than-partially responsible. He'd known Sherlock for years, had seen the man in action. Deep down, he knew Sherlock was genuine, yet he'd still entertained Anderson and Donovan's ideas. Why? Why had he been so willing to lose faith in a man who'd proven himself undeniably brilliant? Why had he taken the word of two people who'd had it out for Sherlock since they met him over the word of the great detective himself? Maybe he was jealous of Sherlock's uncanny ability to piece together the exact events of a crime with barely a glance at the scene. Maybe he was tired of having to turn to him for help on cases that were above his head. Sherlock never failed to remind him how much of an idiot he was, missing everything of importance when it came to cases.

But when Sherlock called someone an idiot, it was almost a term of endearment. It was his way of acknowledging that you're trying, even if your efforts yield nothing of value. He'd heard Sherlock call John 'idiot' on many occasions, but it was always with a sense of playfulness in his tone. Sherlock never said anything to John with the intention to hurt. Although, Lestrade somewhat doubted the detective understood the emotional repercussions his stunt on the rooftop would have for the doctor. He didn't understand the scope of John's feelings for him, honestly didn't think he'd be missed. But Sherlock Holmes, a man who was never wrong, had been sorely mistaken on that front.

Looking around the funeral home, Lestrade had absolutely no doubt that Sherlock Holmes was missed. He'd been shocked at the turnout, knowing how much Sherlock had shunned human company. In addition to his small circle of friends—John, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft—many former clients had chosen to come and pay their respects. Donovan and Anderson had even made an appearance, though they kept well away from Lestrade. This was a good thing, as Lestrade didn't trust himself in their company, as grief-stricken and upset as he currently was.

Mycroft had arranged a minimalistic ceremony, which was still likely more of a fuss than Sherlock would have wanted. Lestrade had offered to speak about Sherlock and his work just before John gave a eulogy. He'd agonized over what to include in his short speech; there was simply too much material to work with. He dreaded the moment when he would have to step up and speak in front of so many people. He didn't trust himself not to break down and cry. One of his best friends had suddenly killed himself, how could he possibly compose himself enough to deliver comprehendible words?

Well, he didn't have much longer to agonize over that, because it was his turn to speak. Taking a deep breath, he gathered his noted and stepped up to the lectern at the front of the room. From up here, the room seemed even fuller than it had from his seat, and all those pairs of eyes were trained on him. He glanced at John for reassurance, and the doctor managed to give him a weak smile. Lestrade sighed and began reading:

"In all my years as a Detective Inspector, never have I seen a man as dedicated as Sherlock Holmes. Granted, he'd only accept a case if it was 'interesting' enough, but once he did he wouldn't rest until it was solved. And I mean that literally. He wouldn't stop to eat or even sleep if there was a puzzle to be solved. I, for one, could never accomplish such a feat. Maybe his ability to survive without sustenance or rest was the result of some Frankenstein-esque experiment—I wouldn't put it past him to use himself as a lab rat. Undoubtedly, it wasn't entirely healthy, but it was effective.

"Sherlock Holmes could read a person's life story in the shape of their hands and recreate an entire crime from one glance at the scene. He was great at what he did, but he was also an arrogant arse about it. Because of this, he was often the object of jealousy and abuse, and I fear the manifestation of that may have led to all these terrible accusations. If Sherlock were here to look at the circumstances of his own death, he'd figure out what happened and why, and call all of us idiots for not seeing the obvious. However, he is sadly not here to do so. I myself am a detective, and while my expertise pales in comparison to Sherlock's, it doesn't take a genius to see that he was driven over the edge when those closest to him lost faith.

"I cannot lie, I bought into the idea of his dishonesty, but my perspective has drastically changed in light of recent circumstances. I've seen Sherlock Holmes in action, and there is no doubt in my mind he was everything he claimed to be, and more. Unfortunately, my realization comes too late, and I will spend the rest of my life hating myself for ever doubting him. Thank you."

Lestrade finished his speech, barely having maintained his composure. He returned to his seat next to John and allowed a few tears to freely slide down his cheeks before wiping them away with the back of his hand. John gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder before stepping up to the front to deliver his own eulogy. He hadn't shared it with anybody beforehand, and Lestrade braced himself for the emotional roller coaster that was to follow. But no amount of preparation could have gotten him through; John's speech was absolutely raw and emphasized the guilt Lestrade had been feeling ever since he heard the news. He hoped that Sherlock could somehow see John in this state and could understand that he was loved.

When John finished, he returned and plopped down next to Lestrade, utterly shattered. The DI allowed him to bury his face in his shoulder and just cry. No amount of tears could alleviate the pain, but they were somewhat helpful in venting grief and frustration. They remained like that for the remainder of the ceremony until it was time to move to the cemetery. Lestrade coaxed John to his feet, and together they vacated the funeral home.

Sherlock's casket was simple and unadorned, but still probably more extravagant than the detective would've wanted. He probably wanted himself donated to science or something, but undoubtedly Mycroft had vetoed that. Lestrade stood close to John, who was looking more distraught by the second as the pall bearers brought Sherlock towards the grave. Somehow he couldn't picture the wooden box as containing the body of his friend, the image just wouldn't appear in his imagination. Maybe that was for the best. As the casket began its descent, John lunged forward meaning to follow it into the ground. Lestrade grasped him by the wrist and pulled him back into a bear hug, whispering into his ear that everything would be okay. He wouldn't allow John to destroy himself over this. The doctor deserved better.

"No, no. NO!" John's pained shout echoed across the cemetery. He struggled against Lestrade's grip as the last of the wooden box disappeared beneath the rim of the hole. Sherlock's body in the ground. The idea just didn't compute. Lestrade continued to comfort John until he was no longer at risk for leaping into the hole after Sherlock, and he finally let him go. Just as he did so, a sound pierced his ears. A sound that definitely didn't belong in a cemetery: laughter.

He turned around to see none other than Philip Anderson chuckling at Sherlock's graveside. He fixed him with such a piercing glare that did nothing to convey the hatred he felt for the forensic specialist in that moment. Anderson strode over and yanked Lestrade aside by the sleeve. The DI was pissed off, and snapped, "Anderson, how could you?"

"I promise, I wasn't laughing at this," Anderson defended. Lestrade was about to burst with rage. There was no excuse for laughing at a funeral.

"Then what the bloody hell were you laughing about?" he spat, fighting the instinct to grab Anderson by the throat.

"Listen, I don't think Sherlock's really dead. I think he faked it." Of all the dumb things Lestrade had heard Anderson say since he'd known him, this put them all to shame. Sherlock Holmes faked his death by jumping off a building. What absolute ridiculousness.

"God Anderson, what the hell is this? We're at the man's bloody funeral, and you're accusing him of faking it? Unacceptable." Lestrade massaged his temples and shook his head. "I know you two didn't get along very well, but the least you can do is show him some respect." Anderson turned tail and fled, which was fortunate, because Lestrade didn't know how much longer he could restrain his temper. God, how much did you have to hate somebody for their death to fail to get you to show some sympathy? Lestrade would have words with Anderson, but now was not the time or the place.

He returned to John's side and placed a hand on his shoulder—the good one—to comfort him. Never in a million years did Lestrade think he'd be standing here, at the graveside of a much younger man with a retired army doctor-turned-blogger. It was a truly a tragedy, and it would never stop stinging. All they could hope for was that their wounds would heal over with time. How much time was another question altogether.


	7. Chapter 7

**Every time I reread this chapter, I tear up a little. There's a reason I saved it for last. ;)**

Chapter 7: John

"You machine!"

Those were some of the last words he'd spoken to Sherlock in person. Those were the words he wished he'd never said. Those were the words John would forever regret:

"You machine!"

John had been tricked, and he'd fallen for it whole-heartedly. He didn't even remember who it was who called him saying Mrs. Hudson had been shot; he hadn't thought to check if it was a reliable source. He'd been so overwhelmed with everything going on that he'd let his guard down. Of course he rushed over to check on her, and Sherlock had stayed behind. He'd been such an idiot: Sherlock loved Mrs. Hudson more than he loved his own mother. If she was really in trouble, he'd be the first one there. He should've seen that something was up. Sherlock would have called him an idiot for missing something so obvious.

Those final few moments replayed themselves in an endless loop in John's brain, torturing him. Every time he relived it, he thought of everything he did wrong, everything he should have done but didn't. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Sherlock silhouetted against the sky behind him as he stood on top of St. Bart's, he saw his bloodied body lying motionless on the pavement. Their phone conversation looped over and over in his head like a broken record. Sherlock had called it his note.

John hadn't slept for more than an hour at a time since it happened. If he allowed himself to dream, his subconscious forced him to again watch Sherlock plummet four stories. Just as in real life, he was powerless to stop it. Never had he felt so useless. Not when he failed to save his comrades on the battlefield, not when he failed to save Harry from turning to the bottle, not when he failed to save himself from his own post-traumatic stress, but when he failed to save his best friend from ending his life.

He agonized over the weeks leading up to the event, searching his memories of Sherlock for signs of depression. He was a doctor, for heaven's sake; he should have noticed that something was wrong! The whole Richard Brooke affair would have been enough to drive any normal person over the edge, but Sherlock was far from normal. He accepted the accusations with grace, he allowed everyone around him to think that he made everything up. The Sherlock John knew would have gone to the ends of the Earth to set the record straight, not thrown in the towel.

On the rooftop, Sherlock had told John that the rumors were true, that he did invent all the crimes. John hadn't believed him for one second, had thought this was all some big joke. He hadn't really taken it seriously until Sherlock's feet left the roof. Then his world had come crashing down. He remembered running desperately, being knocked over, and scrambling back to his feet to get to Sherlock. He just couldn't be dead. Sherlock Holmes didn't die. By the time John reached the sidewalk, a small crowd had already accumulated. John immediately noticed the blood on the pavement beneath their feet. He rushed forward, pushing through the masses to get to Sherlock, because he couldn't be dead, it just wasn't possible. He finally got a hand around the detective's wrist, and his heart sank when no reassuring thump-thump could be felt beneath his fingertips. Then he'd been wrenched away and forced to watch as Sherlock's lifeless body was carted away by strangers.

In that moment, he'd felt nothing more than a hollowness in the pit of his stomach. The crowd dispersed, leaving no more evidence of the fall except for the blood still spattering the ground. John had wandered the area aimlessly, not knowing what to do with himself. He remembered pinching himself repeatedly, convinced this was all a bad dream, that he'd wake up in his bed in Baker Street to the sounds of the violin emanating from downstairs. But no matter how hard he pinched, he remained anchored here, in what had to be reality.

He didn't remember exactly what happened afterwards, but somehow he ended up back at Baker Street. It was painfully empty and silent. He wandered upstairs to the sitting room and sat down in his chair, looking across at the black armchair that would never be occupied again. He knew instantly that he wouldn't be able to stay there without Sherlock. From that moment, he simply existed in a timeless stupor. He didn't eat or sleep, only drinking the cups of tea Mrs. Hudson practically forced down his throat. It just didn't seem fair that he could engage in such mundane activities when Sherlock never would again.

He knew Mycroft had already set a date for the funeral, but he didn't dwell on that thought too much. A funeral would only solidify the fact that Sherlock was gone. Until then, he could hold out hope that the detective would burst into the flat, demanding John follow him on a case. He'd heard some people say that funerals bring closure, help the surviving accept things and move on. He tried to think of it like that, but he couldn't see it as anything more than a confirmation of Sherlock's non-existence.

Now, John found himself in the funeral home itself, realizing that he'd been one hundred percent right. He'd started crying the moment he stepped inside, and hadn't stopped since. The tears poured constantly down his face, like a leaky faucet. Every once in a while, a burst of emotion would speed them up, turning a trickle into a torrent. His first glimpse of the casket was one example, Sherlock's cold body stuffed into a box. Mycroft hadn't asked him if he wanted a last glimpse of the body, and John was somewhat torn in regards to this. He understood that he wasn't family, but he was much closer to Sherlock than anybody else. On one hand, he did not want to see Sherlock lying dead, but on the other, his last image of the detective was of him with his head bashed in and bloody. At least he'd been made presentable before he was to be buried, Mycroft would have made sure of that. John hoped Mycroft had had him dressed in his purple dress shirt; it was one of his favorites.

At the front of the room was a simple lectern, where some man from the funeral home was currently muttering nonsense he'd rehearsed half an hour ago. To one side was a large picture of Sherlock. However, he'd hated having his picture taken, and the only usable one they could find was one from the newspaper: him wearing the deerstalker hat. Sherlock would hate that, and this only made John cry harder.

Sherlock's parents were nowhere to be found, and John found this appalling. Their son had died, and they couldn't be bothered to attend the funeral? It was sickening. John understood that people didn't always have the best of relationships with their parents, but no conflict could possibly important enough to bar them from coming to mourn the loss of their child. He considered questioning Mycroft about their absence, but decided against it. The last thing he needed was more Holmes drama.

Next to John sat Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had a small circle of friends, but each probably cared enough to be worth two or three people. John had seen Anderson and Donovan towards the back of the room, but he chose not to acknowledge their presence. He couldn't help but blame them for pushing Sherlock too far. They'd coerced Lestrade into thinking Sherlock a liar, and John wasn't sure he could ever forgive them for their actions.

The Detective Inspector himself now stood up and moved to the front of the room to give a speech. He and John had agreed they'd be the only ones to speak. When he decided firmly that he would write one, John had sat down and poured his heart out into his eulogy. Listening to Lestrade speak about Sherlock's passion for the work, John felt the tears pouring even harder. He would never meet another man quite like Sherlock Holmes.

Before he knew it, Lestrade had finished and it was John's turn. John wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, but fresh ones soon replaced them. He'd just have to suck it up and do this. He eased up out of his seat and slowly walked up to the front of the room. He didn't think he'd be able to make it through his eulogy without sniffling, so he abandoned all hope of delivering it cleanly. He'd be a sniveling mess, but screw it.

"As I'm sure you know, my name is John Watson, and I had the pleasure of chronicling the adventures of Sherlock Holmes," he began, tears already obscuring his vision. He'd have to speak partially from memory or continuously wipe his eyes dry to be able to read his notes.

"When I first met Sherlock, I was fresh out of Afghanistan with a bum shoulder, severe PTSD, and a psychosomatic limp," he confessed. "I'd been in therapy, physical and mental, ever since I returned to England, but I wasn't getting any better. By some miracle of fate, I stumbled upon Mike Stamford, who brought me to a morgue—of all places—" John choked on this line, remembering Sherlock's love of the morgue and all the insane experiments he'd conducted there—"to meet a potential flatmate. Imagine my surprise when a man I've never met before tells me my entire life story. I was taken aback, and a little suspicious. But Sherlock Holmes soon proved to be the perfect companion, despite his eccentricities. In one night, my limp was cured and my life completely turned around, and I owe it all to Sherlock Holmes.

"Over the years, the crimes grew stranger and we grew closer. Sherlock quickly became my best friend. The man himself would claim that he didn't have friends, but I have no doubt that he considered me a friend, maybe his only one. But if I were to have only one friend in the world, I would choose Sherlock Holmes. Because even though he can be callously blunt, blatantly ignorant, and inhumanly stoic, he can also be gently compassionate, amazingly clever, stupidly fearless, and fiercely loyal."

John had to take a bit of a breather after that bit, biting his knuckle because the pain helped him keep it together. He continued:

"I wouldn't trade my life with Sherlock for anything. If I'm totally honest, I might not have had much of a life if I hadn't crossed paths with him. He saved me from my own demons, and for that I owe him so many thanks. That I will never be able to tell him how grateful I am is a thought that pains me to no end. There are so many things I wish I could tell him now, more than I could ever say in one sitting, but I fear he is where I cannot reach him. He would scoff at me for so much as suggesting an afterlife, but if anybody deserves a spot in heaven, it's Sherlock Holmes. He would probably scoff at me some more for being so sentimental—he always hated sentiment—but I hope he's secretly pleased to know that I care. I care so much, that I feel like I'm about to burst with grief knowing he's gone.

"The circumstances of his death play no small part in the emotional severity of this tragedy. Sherlock was not suicidal, he was happy with his job and his life, and it wasn't until he was faced with James Moriarty that things started to go downhill. I don't know what you've heard about Richard Brook, but Sherlock and I know for a fact he is purely a construct of Moriarty, designed to defame Sherlock. I shudder to think about how many people bought into this idea that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, a fake genius," John not-so-subtly glanced in Donovan and Anderson's direction.

"But I've accepted that everyone is entitled to their own opinion. If you want to believe that the greatest mind to ever live was a fraud, inventing everything to bolster his ego, then more power to you. But nobody will ever convince me that my best friend, the man who saved me, has been lying to me the entire time I've known him. The only aspect of this tragedy that offers me any respite from the sheer anguish is the demise of Moriarty. If Sherlock Holmes had to die, at least he brought the world's greatest criminal down with him. I know that's what he would've wanted," John concluded. He raised his gaze from his paper to look out across the room, to see a hundred watery-eyed faces staring back at them. He briefly nodded and staggered back to his seat, feeling the grief swell up inside of him like a tidal wave. The moment he sat down, he collapsed against Lestrade and wept with more force than ever.

He had no idea how long he remained there, his face buried in the DI's shoulder, but by the time he resurfaced many people had already left. It was time to go to the cemetery, where they would put Sherlock in the ground for the rest of eternity. Slowly, Lestrade coaxed John to a standing position and led him away.

It was sunny outside, and John despised it. His best friend in the whole world was dead, and the bright sun dared to show its face and set an inappropriate mood. It should have been raining, the clouds crying alongside the mourners. John and Lestrade walked side by side towards the hole that had been dug. Mycroft had wanted Sherlock to rest near his grandparents, so that's where he would lie.

All John could think about as the casket was carried towards the gaping hole in the earth was how much Sherlock hated to be cooped up. He liked to be free to burst in and out of rooms at whim, and being covered in six feet of dirt would certainly prevent that. It felt so permanent, and John _hated_ it. Worst of all was the fact that John could never reach him again once he was buried. They'd remained forever separated, and John couldn't bear to imagine such a life.

He couldn't take it anymore. A life without Sherlock wasn't a life worth living, and time was running out. Every inch the casket lowered into the hole was another inch separating John from his best friend. Without thinking, he lunged for the grave, hoping deep down that he could wrench open the coffin and Sherlock would jump out large as life. Before he could get any closer, he felt sturdy hands gripping him and holding him back. But he was losing Sherlock, he was disappearing from sight. "No, no," he muttered loudly, struggling against his captor's grasp. Sherlock was leaving him, and he wouldn't allow it. The last edge of wood disappeared beneath the rim of the hole, and John lost it. "NO!" He couldn't see Sherlock anymore; he was gone. Really, truly gone. Forever.

He continued to thrash and attempt to escape, wanting more than anything to join Sherlock in the depths, but his energy soon drained and his jostling waned in strength. It was hopeless. He was never getting Sherlock back, and he'd have to accept that. He relaxed, and the hands that had been holding him released their grip. He took a deep breath and stepped forward to throw a handful of dirt into the hole. He did so without looking down, because if he did, he'd never be able to wipe the image from his mind.

Sherlock Holmes did not belong in a hole in the ground. He belonged on the streets of London chasing down criminals. He belonged in Scotland Yard insulting the entire police force. He belonged in 221B Baker Street playing the violin or moping around waiting for a case. He belonged by John Watson's side. Well, John Watson belonged by his side, not the other way around. Sherlock was always in charge.

As a child, John had been taught to find the silver lining to every cloud, the rainbow after every storm. Standing by the grave of his best friend in the world, he racked his brain desperately searching for some positive aspect to cling to like a lifeline. After a few minutes, he settled on one small consolation. He knelt down on the cold ground and leaned slightly over the hole so Sherlock could hear him better. And he whispered, quietly enough so no one could overhear him:

"I hope you won't be bored anymore."


End file.
